


Post-Case Solution

by SherlockianDinosaur



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Cool Deductions are Cool, Drug Use, Druglock, Gen, Guys I did a thing., I don't much ship, I like things, I never did a thing before, Pre-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, and that is always fun, but it does have some drama and some feels, drug!lock, fair warning, junky!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:15:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockianDinosaur/pseuds/SherlockianDinosaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock uses Lestrade for cases and cocaine for everything else. Pre-Canon/Canon Lead-up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock deduces and Lestrade is 'incompetent.'

_Marks on middle finger and thumb from fork imply a tightened grip. Probably nervous, demonstrating restraint. Restraint from what exactly? Small verticle crescent below left corner of lip and... Ah, the ear too. Long phone call with land line receiver on left side with no trace of switching, in-dominant hand because dominant was likely in use. Writing, taking notes.  Known as recent widower, yet he still wears his ring. Not yet dating, so something important. An appointment, address, phone number, probably for his own benefit, considering the apparent length of the conversation, which was strange considering the dead sister that he should have been mourning._ "Have you got a pen on you?"

"What?" 

"Sherlock-" The DI ran a hand over his face, once again regretting allowing the tactless consulting detective to see the witness. 

"And a scrap of paper, if you have it. I just remembered something and I should like to hold onto the thought for later... Please." 

The witness dug through his pockets, pulling out a pen from one, and digging through the bus stubs and business cards that filled a compartment of his wallet until he found one he could decidedly part with. "All I've got," he started awkwardly, glancing to the Detective Inspector and being slightly relieved to see that he too saw this as a strange start to in interrogation.

 _Piccadilly, Bakerloo and Central tube passes. Could have gone with only two, therefore made stops before arriving on what would soon become a crime scene. Business cards for dull unrelated companies, phone numbers and dates crawled across backs, smeared, faded, mostly old notes for his career, probably a public relations officer -- unimportant. A single slip had been torn from a larger pad. Unwrinkled, definitely new, probably the note in question._  The detective ignored the pen and slip being held out to him. "Never mind. Show me the room and recreate the scene, Mr. Mathews."

They stepped into the old flat where Lestrade's team had already been stupid enough to clear the body away. Mathews walked him through the morning, starting with his arrival at his sister's house, through their short conversation in the hall and ending as they sat down to breakfast only to have a bullet sent through the woman's head.

"Your sister lived alone?"

"Yes, her boyfriend has been abroad for three months."

The Consulting Detective moved to the kitchen, Lestrade tailing him and ensuing that the crime scene was limited to the dining area and the building across the street. Simpleton logic aside, Sherlock located the used pad of paper, tilting it this way an that in the light. Beneath where the note had been torn away, the nervous pressure of the man's pen had left the message clear enough.  _"C &A 4.30. 600." ..._ _Easy enough._

"And this morning, did you sit first, or she?" This earned another look from Lestrade, but the witness, or more accurately, the suspect, showed an obvious hesitation in his answer. Sherlock cut him off before he had the chance to release the lie he was currently working to spew. "She lived alone and everything about the flat implies that she was a creature of habit, suggesting she had one seat which she would always use for every meal. Odds say that it would be the one facing the telly, as there would be no one with whom she could indulge conversation. " He moved to the referenced chair, standing behind it and gesturing the television visible across the room before kneeling and pointing at the floor. "Scuff marks visible on the floor from constant pushing in and out only stand to verify this fact, however, this seat is not visible from any possible point of fire.  There are limited areas which one could set up a sniper in this part of town without being seen, the most convenient of which would be through that window, which was, unsurprisingly, where the shot came from. So tell me, is it coincidence that on the day you happened to take her seat and force her into the opposite a bullet was sent through her window and her eggs were decorated with blood?"

The man stared in sputtered shock, trying to find the words to defend himself, but failing to form any remotely coherent thoughts. 

"I thought so," Sherlock answered, full height pulled up in his pride, head tipped back so he could look down at the Detective Inspector. "He took the Piccidilly Line this morning even though it was out of the way. Whoever was on the other end of this bullet was probably involved. He has an appointment to meet them at four thirty this afternoon with their payment, six hundrend pounds, it seems, and they will probably be somewhere near Golden Square. Look for partner residents with initials 'C' and 'A' or restaurants that could be abbreviated as such.  I suggest you keep your knowledge out of the press if you expect to catch the actual shooter, but this man was the oganisational 'genius' behind it."

Looking around for a moment, Lestrade waved vaguely at his officers standing at the door. "You heard him. Send Donovan and Michaels off to find their meet-up and get this guy into a pair of cuffs."

Sherlock was already striding out of the room and making for the flat's exit when he heard the DI's voice calling after him. For a moment he considered pressing forward and pretending he couldn't hear the shouted 'Sherlock's from the building, but his career in mind, he thought better of it, spinning on his heel to meet Lestrade's approach. "Must I spell it out for you? I knew half of it the instant I saw him, really, all that was left was the details. The marks across his-"

"Yeah I know, I looked at it but didn't observe anything and you worked it out because I'm incompetent. I don't care how you got there, just write us a statement so we can get on and finish this out okay?"

Glaring at the paperwork presented to him, Sherlock took the pen, signed his name and resumed walking. The case had barely been enough to entertain him as it was, there was certainly no time to waste with paperwork. Lestrade could work it out just fine, this was his domain. Legalities. _Tedious._ For now, all that was left or Sherlock was a dirty flat piled with a strategic mess of equipment and books, and a tiny syringe of post-case solution. Seven percent ought to do him just fine.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a problem and Cocaine has a solution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to know a coke addict and I've done quite a bit of research on the whole thing. My bit here really doesn't match up with ACD's canon, but his depiction always seemed off, so I went ahead and changed it up a bit and will continue to unveil my theories about junky!lock.  
> Comments and Crit welcome, as always!!

Cocaine did wonders.

In ten minutes Sherlock was pulling the tourniquet from his bicep and relishing the immediate gratification of soothing ecstasy. Already pin-point senses sharpened and the scrutinising thoughts evaporated and everything was important. Every detail was shut into a dee room of his palace, held there until he had the mind to go through it.  _Dirt on trousers greyish, probably because I was away from the river. It was blown on me because it is fine, cheap, less posh part of town. Mostly on my back, I was probably walking west. Book cover worn on bottom, I hold it while I read. Must relate to cases. Door still tilted on hinges. Indent on thumb and forefinger that correspond with syringe. Four cars outside, one heavier than the rest. Truck probably. Slowing traffic._

The entirety of the ruddy flat was catalogued and he continued to look for patterns, find conclusions and work towards their beginning. Ears pricking, hands flying over surfaces, touching dust, inspecting scratches, jumping over cheap furniture, checking cushions, Sherlock finally exhausted his resource and made his way for the door, dark hip-length pea-coat half pulled over his shoulders as he skitted along the pavement. Passersby received shameless stares as Sherlock checked fingernails, hands, feet, knees, collars, anything for any lead on the person's life. Usually he got quite a lot. Sometimes he asked questions. Often he was left muttering about his findings and irritated because no one else was clever enough to understand why he cared. 

It was the paranoia that finally sent him home. It always was. He looked over his shoulder as he ducked through well memorised side-streets and alleys, taking cover behind the skips as people passed and dodging into his rooms with the rush of adrenaline that always accompanied a good chase whether the other runners existed or not. 

Slowly he came to his senses, plucking at a violin with three perfectly tunes strings and one broken one that he would fix when his brain was sober enough to care. Forty-eight minutes post-injection and the detective was strewn over the blankets nested across the ill-used bed, violin on his chest and fingers moving in lazy expertise to play a dissonant pizzicato. His neighbour had complained about the music once, but upon knocking and receiving a thorough deduction that delved into her smoking habits, illegal smuggling and sex addiction, she hadn't dropped by again so he played long into the night. As far as Sherlock was concerned, that was ideal, for, while others might hear the violin's tune as random and unmelodic, Sherlock heard it as a perfect translator that kept just enough of his mind occupied to allow him a single stream of focused thought.  _  
_

There was only so long he could keep himself occupied with such things, however.

It was sixteen days and four more hits before Lestrade found him another case and hit number five was well under way. Again he tied his arm off, again he cleaned his arm, again he smirked as he pressed the thin needle under his skin and felt the cool rush of the fluid.  The careful analysis of the flat began, but he only got though a quarter of it before his mobile rang from where he'd left it.  _On the floor just beneath the couch next to the leg, bisecting the right angle made by the corner. Face down. Mycroft's still trying to prove his point with silence, already phoned Molly, Lestrade, then._

"Knew you couldn't last."

"Sherlock, it's a kidnapping, we've found him, but he's all tears. He won't talk, not even to his mother. We're at-"

"No."

 _Hesitation - surprise._ "What?"  _Obvious._

"No, I'm busy, don't phone me unless you  _still_  haven't got anything in a few hours."

"Sherlock, what do you mean you're busy? What else do you even do? This could be-" 

He didn't bother listening. In fact, he didn't even bother staying on the line, hanging up before the DI had the chance to finish another sentence, fingers already jittering with anxious energy. A few hours should be enough time, he might as well get the most out of this high anyway now that the solution's been used.  _Same bird passed outside yet again, still calling. Lost mate. Toilet door closed. Light off. Empty but concealing. Vertical scrape on doorframe, kni- No, curved bade, machete._ His phone started ringing again and he ignored it, lost in thoughts of the flipped up carpet corner and the thousands of possible meanings. He was up and about now, the tapping of his fingers no longer a sufficient energy release. Touching things, turning them over, he continued to ignore his ringing phone. 

Five more minutes in the flat and thirty outside, Sherlock returned with a split lip, a scowl, and the comings of a headache that could have been the falling high or the blow to the head. Sherlock actually hoped for the latter.

Newly refurbished violin finally letting out the first few notes, Sherlock suddenly bolted up at the footfalls sounding outside the door.  _Even, obviously trained. Too heavy for a military officer, rubber soles, Gregory Lestrade._  Sure enough there came the unmistakable knocks.

"Sherlock?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade gets annoyed and Sherlock doesn't understand.

The detective sat, silently hoping that Lestrade hadn't heard his playing. He could hear the man's shuffling steps in the hall, the slight movement of the door in the ill-fitting frame as he leaned his ear against it. There was a beat of silence, falling with a defeated sigh from Lestrade and breathless relief from Sherlock that only lasted the short seconds before his mobile vibrated against the uneven floorboard, short spurts of buzzing painfully audible.

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock, are you still going to pretend you're not in there?"

It was a matter of weighing odds. Dark curls hanging low with too many days of unwashed grime, eyes dilated, hands still nearly trembling and arm littered with spots of blood he hadn't cared enough to wipe off, Sherlock watched the door and thought back several weeks, trying to remember the last time he hadn't had his mobile within arm's reach and reluctantly deciding that Lestrade knew him too well to assume he'd left without it. With a long exhale, he shed his dressing gown, tossing it over the paraphernalia that scattered the table and covering his own unfed, track-marked form with the blanket off his bed as he moved to the door. He pulled it open, taking in the DI and storing everything alongside the accumulated information of his high that he hadn't yet managed to go through.  _Searching eyes and a sigh of relief, if he could depict concern and relief any more obviously I would have to call it a lie. Traces of dried blood on his shirt cuff, he had said kidnapping, hadn't he? Then he hasn't even changed yet, probably still on duty. Yes, obviously, gun concealed at hip and identification at the ready in his right pocket._ Sherlock's eyes got stuck on the DI's left where something rectangular and unfamiliar was also hidden, but the man's words forced him up to reality.

"This is what was more important than our case? You look like you've been having a bloody kip."

"You always tell me to get more sleep. Anyway, you worked it out, otherwise you wouldn't have come." Sherlock suddenly realised the object in Lestrade's left pocket.  _Notepad, left pocket because someone else handed it to him. The kidnapped boy wouldn't speak, but he would write things down. Curious._

The DI nodded, attempting to peer around the cocooned consulting detective and into the flat, but Sherlock made it intentionally difficult. "Yeah, we got him to-"

"Write it down, obviously."

"Right." Lestrade paused, looking over Sherlock and probably wishing he had the innate deductive reasoning that could tell him why the hell things felt so off. "There was an accomplice," he started slowly, "and we haven't the faintest where he might be, but there are a few things I was hoping you could look into."  _Slight raising of the eyebrows, twitch of the hand._ Sherlock would normally have grinned at the prospect of carrying out something that was evidently too illegal for the DI to do himself, but the pounding of the rising headache was beating against the pleasure. The prospect of venturing out into a police station in his state seemed remarkably stupid as it was, surely someone there would be trained well enough to recognise a user, and his discovery would be anything but ideal.

"Find someone else," Sherlock finally muttered. He moved to close the door, but Lestrade's foot found itself wedged in the opening.

"Sherlock, what's going on here?"

The DI's voice had lost it's professionalism and Sherlock decidedly hated the softness of it, scowling in turn. "Nothing. Experiments, brain work. I'm fine." Again he moved to shut the door, catching Lestrade's stubborn foot. He cursed his lack of eloquence and the cocaine's tendency to eliminate what little tact and acceptable social behaviour he might have been able to claim. 

"You're not fine," he began, pushing the door open further so he could try to look Sherlock in the eye. "Is this a punishment? Have I done something?"

No answer save a blank, scrutinising stare.

"Christ, I need your help, are you going to give it to me?"

"Doubtful."

"Why?"

"I mean doubtful that you need my help given that you haven't bothered chasing the leads yet. If that wasn't the help you were implying, then no your wife's not cheating on you and yes you should have picked the jacket without those ridiculous pockets. Now leave, I was busy." Sherlock's hand came up as his speech went on, palm pushing against the DI's chest and heel forced against the man's knee in an attempt to remove him from the doorway. Lestrade stumbled back into the hall, grabbing at Sherlock's shoulders for balance. His slew of curses came as expected and Sherlock pulled back, struggling to get away from the officer, the man who might actually care about the state of his inner elbow and the poison in his bloodstream.

"What the hell? Damn it, Sherlock relax! What has gotten into you?"

The drug induced paranoia once again surfaced and he tugged against Lestrade's grip, ducking out of the blanket's protective wall and making for the safety of his flat. Fingers closed around his wrist and he knew he'd lost. Refusing to look at the other man Sherlock could practically feel the moment the DI's stare fell upon his arm.  _Catch in breath, sour attempt at recovery. Why are people always so shocked?_

Lestrade's grip loosened but he didn't let go. Sherlock didn't imagine he ever would. He stared stubbornly in the other direction, body still in the stance of his flee, trying desperately to will himself away.

"Sherlock..."

"I've had this conversation enough times, can we skip to the end where you leave and I pretend to be guilty until you are out of sight?"

"No! I- Do you not understand, really?" When no answer came, Lestrade tugged his arm, forcing their eyes to meet, voice lowering again to that hateful tone of gentle honesty. "You've halved my unresolved cases, you come out at three in the morning when we find a murder, you've me on the top of the charts and you won't even take any credit, let me help you for once."

Sherlock let a beat fall pretending to consider. "Are you planning on leaving any time soon?"

"I don't know, deduce it."

The quip sounded too familiar and far too jocular for the setting but in a way Sherlock was glad for it, a small part of his mind thinking of the harsh banter and back-and-forth that surrounded their cooperation that had made the DI one of the most consistently tolerable people Sherlock had known in a long while. Still his jaw tightened and he refused, tugging slightly against where Lestrade's hand still trapped his own. "I need it, there's nothing you can do. My brother's tried everything, now let me go."

"No."

"Please."

Several moments passed and the word hung in the air. Sherlock watched Lestrade's expression shift from shock at the rare utterance to indecision. Eventually he could see frustration manifest itself in the crease of his brow and the small parting of his lips until it slowly melted into the shaking of his head. "At seven tomorrow morning a drugs bust team is going to search your flat, Sherlock, and they will be extremely thorough. They'll bring dogs, they'll check the floorboards, if there is anything here they will find it. Please,  _please_  don't let that be the case."

"Yes Detective Inspector," Sherlock sneered, but the fingers tightened on his arm and he could feel his own tainted pulse.

"This isn't about the law, Sherlock!" The words were hissed in some emotion Sherlock wasn't quite about to pinpoint. "This is about  _you._ It's about you being better at detection than the whole of Scotland Yard, and me not letting you ruin yourself with heroi-"

"Cocaine."

Lestrade's face contorted until both hands came up to rub away the expression. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk.

"Just throw it out, Sherlock. See you at seven and good God, I better not have to cuff you."

Steel eyes watched the DI as he walked through the dim hallway until he opened the door and was silhouetted by the grey light of a London afternoon. Slowly the grin fell from his face and he found himself rubbing at the tiny blood flecked bruises on his arm.  A minute passed, maybe two, the detective was too deep in thought to really be sure, and he ventured back into his sitting room and picked up his violin. He stared at the bottles on the table as the bow found a jumping tuneless melody.


	4. Chapter 4

Hours ticked on and Sherlock played and sat and thought and wondered if Lestrade would ever actually arrest him. The bow pushed bitterly across the stings as he realised the answer was almost certainly yes and that an arrest for something as petty as possession would hardly be worth the lost credit. Living without the chemical aid was a daunting prospect however and Sherlock recalled the days of boredom and the head aches before he'd found a way out. The way things stood now he had little choice but to get everything out of the flat and find somewhere to store it while this whole business finished. Give it a week, he figured, and he could be back on without worry.

It was nearly six by the time he checked his mobile and he was glad his indecision hadn't lasted much longer. Fingers still curled around the neck of his violin, Sherlock dragged himself up and made for his dresser, digging to the hidden compartment beneath his socks and pulling out a flat metal box, shining with appropriate care and apparently in need of a new hiding place. He cleaned himself up, gathering the syringes and bottles and plastic bags and filing them away into the box that slid so neatly into his coat pocket. 

By six twenty-five he was headed out the door, mind still weighing the options. He was carrying with him what he guessed to be nearly 120 quid's worth of coke in addition to that would undoubtedly be confiscated as paraphernalia if left in the flat. There were few places one could hide such things in London, crawling with closet addicts as well as open ones who would steal it without a thought. He knew he would. As he made his way towards the only dealer he could ever have called reliable, he considered simply shooting up for himself, at least using some of it while it was still in his possession. If he wasn't in the flat when Lestrade's team arrived, what difference would it make?  _Urine samples_ , he realised with a distasteful quirk of his lip. 

In the end he sold it. Everything. And the only good thing to come of it was the naive buyer and the fifteen extra pounds he shouldn't have been allowed to charge. He walked home, hands clenched in his pockets for missing what he knew he couldn't have.  _One week. Possibly six days, maybe nine. I've gone much longer. I can manage._  He walked as the city woke and children made their way to school or waiters to work or, in one instance noted on that particular morning, a woman with an overextended knee and a wooden cane that her small dog apparently enjoyed as a chew-stick who was making her way to her ex-husband's home. 

The sneer stuck on his face at the sight of the squad cars as he feigned angry surprise that would keep Lestrade from losing his job. 

"Sir,"  _Breathes instinctively into diaphragm, well controlled voice, a singer, most likely. Two cats._   _"S_ orry, temporary impoundment of the address."  _Recently inducted. Considerable experience with firearms. No military experience. Curious._ "We were alerted of likely possession and possible production and sale of illicit substances for the resident in flat 3A." 

 _Sale and production?_  Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes at the DI's story, trying to decide which reaction would be the most fun for the morning. He was preparing himself for a dramatic breakdown when he saw the Inspector emerging from the building, half-jogging up the walk to greet him. The officer straightened up, lifting her chin and earning a sideways look from Sherlock before she was dismissed.

"Thought maybe you'd make some effort of cleaning up before we came by, do you have any idea what they found in the shower?"

The question creased his brow as he took a few steps towards his home, only to be stopped by Lestrade's hand on his chest. "Yes I know exactly what they found, do they? I'm not about to let twenty-two days of research down because of your ridiculous drugs bust." The words were spat and he craned his neck as if it would actually do anything to help him see the proceedings

"That wasn't research, that was disgusting."

"Pig skin is the closest I could get without committing murder, it's not my fault nature cursed my specimens with imperfections, but I couldn't afford anything more pristine."

"Well, maybe you'll save a bit of cash now, hmm?" He shot Sherlock a look of smug victory.

The consulting detective mostly pretended he hadn't noticed, something that never particularly worked with people who knew him well. He looked over the quiet bustle of a scene which would inevitably be labelled as a false alarm, cheap curtains moving around in a window Sherlock knew to lead to his bedroom and then the ones that gave light to his living room. He made a face at the thought of the people inside, running hands over everything and undoubtedly disturbing his chemicals in search of something more incriminating than Fluoride. 

After a while Sherlock pulled the pack of cigarettes he'd been eyeing from the DI's jacket pocket and a lighter from his own. "Smoking's shit on your lungs, you know." He brought one to his lips and offered another out to the DI, but he was too busy telling Sherlock to shut up and stammering something about reaching into other people's pockets to do anything but snatch the pack back and shove it in his jacket.

Fifteen minutes or so went by before a man came up to them, eyeing Sherlock and asking about some of the more lethal chemicals they'd apparently stumbled upon on the table. Which was wrong, they'd been under the sink in the kitchen, after all, Sherlock wasn't an idiot and he certainly wouldn't leave such highly concentrated Hydrochloric Acid where some idiot would spill it.

It was nearly eight by the time they gave the okay, either because they actually felt that they'd searched everything or because they were afraid of what other apparently disgusting things they'd find if they pried any further. Research was messy, though, and it couldn't be helped. 

Lestrade seemed inherently proud of something, himself, Sherlock supposed, as the whole thing wrapped up. He continually searched for eye contact with Sherlock who consistently responded with haughty sighs and a skilfully averted gaze.

"Well," The DI finally started as he made his way for the car and Sherlock hoped he could get back into his flat and assess the damage. "That's the first step, then."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The DI opened his mouth with a retort on his tongue, but he let it drop, shaking his head. "You are a project, you know that?"

"I never asked you to fix me, I don't need it."

"There, you are actually wrong. Give it a year Sherlock, you'll thank me later. Actually," Lestrade smirked at the thought, "you probably won't."

Sherlock allowed himself to match the Inspector's slight smile at the truth in it, but quickly shut it down at his bitterness for having 180 pounds in his pocket instead of something that could actually be helpful.  Though, upon consideration, 180 quid's worth of cocaine would most certainly be lethal and all of it at once wouldn't really be much use. He pursed his lips at the thought, turning to head into his violated flat and calling over his shoulder. "If you expect this to work you'd better have a case for me by tomorrow."

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock 'steals' a car and Mycroft always wins.

Lestrade did find a case for him. Or rather, a double homicide found Lestrade. It took two days and a trip to Brentwood, but Sherlock did eventually drag the man back to London, actually cuffed to him by a set stolen from the Yard. Lestrade was going on about something again, probably the stolen handcuffs and something to do with firearm safety, but Sherlock let himself drift, rubbing at his wrist where the metal cuff had dug into his skin. The moron tried to run twice and they were both bleeding by the time they got into the car. Maybe that's what Lestrade was complaining about. Still stupid. It hardly even counts as theft if the keys are in the vehicle, anyway-

"Sherlock!" The DI's arms were out in his exasperation, mouth open and eyebrows raised. "Can you at least pretend to listen?"

"What good would that do. Can I just leave and you pretend I stayed?"

"Jesus fucking...  _Humour_  me, yeah?"

Breathing an agitated sigh, Sherlock let his head roll round so he was looking up to Lestrade, waving a disinterested hand for him to continue. 

"Okay look, I'm covering for you this time, but you can't just go off on things like that without permission. You can talk to me later about where the hell you got that revolver, the car's being sent back, the owner's not pressing charges and I'm going to pretend I didn't realise you don't have a driver's li-"

"I _have_  a driver's license."

"Yeah, and it expired four bloody years ago. It doesn't count."

Sherlock sneered at the last words, pronounced with slow precision as if he was some child who wouldn't understand properly otherwise. He sent the same tone back. "If I could drive then, I can drive now."

"That's not the _-_ " His face buried briefly in his hands before looking up and searching around the office as if there was someone else there who might have an answer for him. Evidently there wasn't. Not ever, when Sherlock was involved. "Fine, okay. Just go home and I'll phone you tomorrow so we can talk about your statement. You may be asked to speak at the trial, I'll let you know all the details as they come."

Sherlock was already on his feet, shrugging more fully into his coat and spinning towards the door. If there was anything that ruined the rush of a good case, it was Lestrade going off about those law things that really needn't apply to him. He chose walking home despite his mildly throbbing ankle and desperate need for a shower, the energy and thrill of the case still pulling him along a little too quickly. 

The DI did phone him, Sherlock didn't have to go to the trial and he chose not to renew his license. He was left instead to redo the massacred experiments that had been left after the drugs bust. It kept him busy enough, though the monotony of doing work already completed was gruelling after a few days. Thirty quid in his pocket, he was on the street making for the nearest den barely sixty hours after the case closed. It had been made clear that he wasn't going to be able to keep things in his flat, but there were obviously ways around that. 

He buzzed flat C, hand trembling slightly in both anticipation of the coming high and desperate need for the poison. They asked who he was here for, he gave the predetermined codeword, they asked for a name, he gave his accepted alias and twisted the handle.

"The door's still locked." Sherlock shook the handle, wondering if maybe some incident since his last visit had made it a bit more finicky.

"Yes. Isn't he supposed to be the smart one?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, tuning his ears into the noises on the other end of the intercom.  _Female voice. Laughter. Male voice, laughter, coughing, grunted comment._ "No, Shut up, shhh. No, erm, we're not selling you no more."

"What?!" One hand held its place on the doorknob, the other slamming an angry palm against the door. 

"Yeah, tragedy." Laughter from both background voices. "If you can outbid the bloke I'll let you in." More laughter.

It took a moment for Sherlock to puzzle everything out and his head fell against the door in brief defeat because the only politician in the world who would actually pay off a coke dealer happened to be his brother. He stood in the arching entrance for the good part of five minutes before finally moving away in search of the one Mycroft missed. He must have missed one...

The detective didn't even try for some of the more obvious ones, seeking out the single-man businesses run from the back streets and abandoned car parks that were just barely safe enough to trust. He was out for over four hours before jittering hands put the key in his own flat once again and he was left to consider how he could possibly punish Lestrade for contacting his brother. Or Mycroft for contacting Lestrade, he wasn't sure which way it might have gone, but he didn't much care. He was furious at both and retreated into his makeshift lab of a kitchen for experiments that didn't require much delicate handiwork.

The next morning brought the first headaches. Twelve solid hours of a throbbing skull left him face down on his mattress, pillow trying to block out the sound of his neighbour's telly. He didn't know exactly how long he'd lain there, shades drawn and hands curling into dirty hair hoping that maybe he could keep his brain still. It could have been days the way he felt, but logically he knew it hadn't been. His phone told him it hadn't even been one. The telly in the next room was still on and Sherlock was about ready to start shooting at it through his wall and cross his fingers he didn't kill the woman watching it instead. A frustrated groan came when he realised Lestrade had confiscated his gun and he dragged himself out of bed, across the dark flat and towards the toilets where he still didn't dare flick on the lights. He stood in the darkened shower, still mostly clothed with frigid water pounding on his head held tightly between shaking fingers. After a while he heard his mobile ringing in the next room and let out a snarl.

"I swear I will throw you down the toilet if you don't shut the fuck up... Are you still going? Who are you? Stop  _phoning_ me! Good God I'll flush  _you_  down too..." His yells turned to clips of mutters as he stepped out of the shower, sopping water across the entire flat as he moved towards the fourth bloody call from Lestrade. 

Sherlock half considered answering it and going off at the man for this whole thing, but his phone hit the opposite wall, battery flying from it's case before he could even disagree with himself. 

That night he tried three different dealers and still came up empty, dragging himself home with an exhaustion he wouldn't have quite thought possible. He fell gratefully into his mattress, returning the pillow to it's place over his ears and shutting his eyes in the hope that maybe he'd sleep tonight.

The knock on his door late the next morning told him differently.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade makes a fantastic friend and Sherlock can't explain.

"Go  _away_."

"Sherlock, you realise I can just arrest you for grand theft auto and we can have a chat in the Yard's holding cells. Does that sound better?" 

The Consulting Detective made no effort to answer. Lestrade wouldn't arrest him, they both knew that and there was no use in saying it so the DI could sigh and ask to be let in again. He tried to listen to the shuffling outside, but the throbbing rhythm against his skull was making coherent thought painful. The floor creaked - Lestrade shifting where he stood - and the tiny rays of light coming in from below the door changed as his feet moved behind it. Sherlock shut his eyes and fisted shaking hands against his forehead as the sounds of something sliding along the door could be heard beneath his pulse. No, not along it, down, for when Sherlock opened his eyes again the light spilling across the floor had been blocked completely by the Detective Inspector presumably sitting against the door in wait.

Lestrade leaned his head back into the old chipped wood, staring across at the ruddy wallpaper. "Quit playing this, will you? I thought you could use a chat."

"Shockingly, you were wrong."

The light appeared and disappeared again as Lestrade shifted where he sat, trying to find comfort on the warped wooden flooring. "Not this time, mate."

"You've got work eventually." Sherlock growled, rolling over to let his back face the door and burying his head in his pillow. If only he could sleep.

"I've the weekend off actually, first one in weeks. I've got days to wait if you make me."

With Sherlock's refusal to answer came a long pause, DI waiting in the hall and recovering addict hiding in a cocoon of his own tremors. The pounding in his brain, worsened by his acute hearing and churning mind, continued on and his eyes were caught between wretched heaviness and the inability to close. Outside Lestrade was droning on about something, but the words were reduced to meaningless sounds as Sherlock tried to block them out. Guessing the DI's strategy was easy: be so annoying that Sherlock gives in and opens the door just to get some quiet. The detective didn't even bother scolding himself for wishing he still had his revolver. People don't refuse much at gunpoint.

Lestrade's phone rang but he didn't leave. Sherlock listened without wanting to as the low discussion went on in the hall until the DI said his goodbye and rang someone else. Finally Sherlock found silence, or close to it. Lestrade's fingers still drummed occasionally against the floor and he still called in to see if Sherlock had found reason to change his mind. He didn't, and he had no intention to even as the second set of footsteps came and went. Takeaway, by the smell of it. It made Sherlock's stomach turn over and he clutched at it, wishing his body would just move on. The shower started up in the flat above him and it squealed with the pressure; a semi-constant, isolated note that he knew was softer than it seemed but which bore into his brain even on the better days.

"Sherlock," Lestrade's low tones edged their way into the detective's consciousness yet again, not quite the embodiment of sympathy that Sherlock would have imagined. "You know I've seen people going through it before, I know it's not easy on you."

"Oh you've made that deduction, then. Brilliant job, seems you won't be needing my help anymore."

"Shut up about that will you? It's for your own good."  _Fancy that, even the great Detective Inspector can lose his patience._

"I don't need you to make wrong decisions for me."

"Wrong decisions?"  _Muffled... Why's it muffled?_ Sherlock turned his head back to watch the base of the door frame as Lestrade scoffed and continued. "Sherlock, I'm not going to let you be like the other junkies, picked up from a bin bag in a skip. You're better than that."

"I'm different from them," He shot back, vehemence rising enough to get him to push up to his elbows. "And are you seriously eating in the hallway?"

"Well you won't bloody let me in! And don't change the subject, you're not any different than them." Lestrade was definitely losing patience either in waiting or in the consulting detective himself. Sherlock could practically see the expression on the DI's face on the other side of the door without even having to open it, mouth half open, brow wrinkled and eyes doing that thing that makes it look like he cares. " _That's_  where you're wrong. You think you're some higher power and that you're exempt from this but you're not! You're _human_  and sometimes people make mistakes and they need help _._  So if you'd just get off your royal high horse and-"

"I'm different because I need it," Sherlock hissed between his teeth. The grating ache across his brain seemed to be taking a rest, minimising into the hateful pulse between his temples.

"What? Sherlock, they all say they need it, they're addi-"

"I need it, I use it's properties to my advantage. Other people use it because it's euphoric and while that is a fortunate side-effect, I use cocaine because it teaches me."

"Teaches you?"

Sherlock continued on over the DI, half yelling so he would be heard and could maybe just quit explaining and leave it be. "You know how I work, I see things, observe them. I know what's important and I look for it, do you know how I know? I had a good start yes, I noticed things other morons never did, even in my youth, but there was more and there is only so much a book can tell you. So I experimented. I needed to collect data and see everything so I could draw correlations, find patterns. I tried Ritalin, didn't quite do the job, I was too focused on one thing, but with cocaine... Oh, with cocaine I could see everything. Quick senses were sharpened, I heard things and I remembered them and when I saw a scratch, a fold, a smudge I noticed and I asked and I learned. God, it was so easy. My brother had learned without yes, but it took him years to perfect the level I managed and I hadn't the time to waste on that, not when there were things to do, killers to catch. When I say 'I needed it', I don't mean I'm dependent on it, how could I possibly be something as dull as that. No, I needed it because I need to work and I wasn't smart enough to occupy my own mind. I  _am_ different."

Lestrade stayed quiet even as Sherlock's rant came to a close, letting a long beat settle before finally shaking his head and letting out a sigh. "Maybe you started out different, Sherlock, but you're not anymore."

"Were you listening? If I hadn't I'd be years behind, my work would be..." Somewhere along the line he'd ended up sitting on the edge of his bed and his hands pushed through his hair, dried in half flattened locks that made him the very picture of what he was denying. The heels of his hands pushed into his eyes and Sherlock let out an unwanted groan.

"Yes I was listening, and you used past tense. You  _were_  experimenting, now you're an addict, Sherlock, that's biology and even you can't get around that."

"Stop repeating my name, I know you're trying to manipulate me and I'm not letting you in."

"It was worth a shot." The DI turned to half face the door, crumpling the wrapper from his takeaway and wondering if there was anything he was missing that could make his friend listen to him. "And you changed the subject again." 

The long silence that followed almost made Lestrade think that Sherlock was ignoring him again until the Consulting Detective's deep mumble finally came. "There's no point in talking about something we agree on."

 "Right..."

"Just because I admit it doesn't mean I think you're doing the right thing with this mess," he quickly amended because as far as he could tell overdosing again would be a hell of a lot less trouble than withdrawal for both of them.

 "Okay, fine." Lestrade finally conceded and the floor creaked. Sherlock lifted his head from his hands to watch the sliver of light return beneath the door. "I meant to tell you, by the way. I'm quitting too, smoking that is. Been two days."

"Oh really," Sherlock muttered as he fell back into his bed, uninterested. How Lestrade could even think to equate losing a smoking habit with dropping narcotics was beyond him, but it was a chance to ridicule him and that was something even a sleep-deprived aching Sherlock could enjoy. "Sure this time?"

"Yeah, okay I know. These things are supposed to be easier in pairs. Anyway, I'd say give me a ring if you need anything, but I'm guessing that's not really an option anymore."

Smirking, the Consulting detective glanced breifly at where his phone was still scattered in several pieces near the opposite wall and left Lestrade to make his own deductions.

"Yeah, I'll be punishing you for that one by dropping by tomorrow, see you then."

The shadows of the DI's feet lingered a moment, probably waiting for some dismissal, but when none came, his footsteps creaked away down the hall and out the door leaving only the small break in light that said he'd left something behind. At first Sherlock scoffed at his surveillance attempts, but after a moment he recognised the lingering odour of deli meat and vinegar that had been curdling his stomach for half an hour. A thought was passed for the last meal he'd bothered to have, but the idea of getting up to fetch Lestrade's offering was too daunting in his mind and he rolled over yet again, sneering at the light around his curtains and vowing to get thicker ones.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on (sort of) and Sherlock stumbles upon a way out.

Outside, the bag from the previous day's lunch could be heard rustling as Lestrade peeked inside to see if Sherlock had actually chosen to ignore it completely. The detective waited for the sigh and the second set of knocks.

Had things gone the way he wished, Lestrade would have spent another afternoon seated against his front door and he could sit and scrape notes out of his violin so he wouldn't have to hear the Inspector speak. Apparently Lestrade had spent some time coming up with a solution, however, and after short conversation which included arrest threats and kicking in the door, Sherlock finally dragged himself across the room to let him in.

 _Ironed shirt, at least one cup of coffee, two if his annoyingly cheerful grin is fair evidence._ He would have made some smarting comment if he had the energy, but the cloudiness of deprivation, both sleep and cocaine, made it nearly impossible. He blinked twice and tried to dig his focus out form beneath his beating skull.  _Blue stains on print of left thumb and outside of right hand from signing a cheaply printed cheque. No doubt out for breakfast, the to-go bag in his right hand could have said that much. Two cups of coffee, definitely._ Sherlock narrowed his eyes a moment before letting the door come open and walking the three steps it took to flop onto his sofa.

The new bag dropped onto Sherlock's lap and Lestrade carried the untouched meal to the kitchen bin. There were words coming from his mouth, but they detective was too busy shutting out the pounding of his own pulse that had begun trying to escape through his ears. Sherlock opened his eyes half a minute later, glad to see Lestrade hadn't caught him because that hateful line of concern would have inevitably found a home in the DI's brow. The current wave of migraines briefly subsiding, Sherlock reluctantly picked up the bag, poking through the contents until he found a breakfast pastie. 

 _Two cups of coffee probably means that he'd spent longer in the restaurant than expected, probably waiting for somebody. The shirt suggests he was meeting his wife._ Sherlock watched through the doorway to the kitchen where Lestrade could be seen digging through the cabinets in search of mugs, both men wondering on some level why the DI's wife hadn't been at home the night before.

 

The next four days passed in much the same manner, Lestrade dropping in before or after work to put a meal in him and Sherlock remaining mostly silent, answering only when there was an opening for a spitting comment which his brain could actually function well enough to issue. Twice cases were brought by, Lestrade requesting help with simple details that Sherlock mostly found too boring to even bother explaining, not when his own voice echoed so strangely in his head. He fell asleep once in the midst of the DI's dull account of the completion of a new case and it was some of the only sleep he'd managed since he'd been forced sober. Half an hour here or there was all he seemed capable of and the jittery boredom was beginning to collide viciously with his deep exhaustion. 

Feet up on one armrest and head dropped against the other, Sherlock plucked at the violin across his chest, pretending the sound didn't shatter against his ears. As the steps sounded up the hall, Sherlock grimaced, not at all looking forward to enduring another hour of Lestrade's commentary on the rugby standings that Sherlock wouldn't have cared about even on his best days. The instant he heard the clicking alongside the even stride the realisation struck.  Sherlock's sneer deepened and he wished escape were a more viable option. The knock sounded and Sherlock didn't bother getting up, fully expecting the key he could hear sliding into the lock.

The door pushed open and Mycroft stood a moment scanning the flat and trying to decide how much of the disarray was still typical of the detective and how much was due to his current condition.  _Apparently the flat looks different on security cameras,_  Sherlock thought bitterly as he watched the ceiling.

"The Inspector's in Liverpool attending a trial," Mycroft drawled as he peered over towards the kitchen. "Thought maybe I'd stop by."

"How noble."

Breathing a deep sigh, Mycroft tipped own his chin to look down to his brother. "Still on that, are we?"

Sherlock snarled his silent reply, unwilling to expend any more effort than necessary on his brother.

The elder Holmes narrowed his eyes, mouth twitching into a tiny, closed smile that expressed more bitterness than pleasure. Slow steps carried him across of the flat. Sherlock clenched his teeth, seething with frustration that was only making the ache between his temples multiply. Finally the elder brother completed his circuit, standing in the space between his bed and the back of the couch, turning his gaze down to Sherlock.

"I'm fine."

"You're not." The answer came without missing a beat and Mycroft's face hardened into an expression beyond fraternal rivalry that made Sherlock thoroughly uncomfortable.

He sent the elder brother a look, brows half raised and mouth poised for sarcasm as he silently asked,  _Happy?_ _  
_

 _Obviously not,_ Mycroft's tilted head and levelled gaze muttered back.

"Then leave."

For an instant it looked like maybe Mycroft was considering just walking out the door; maybe this had been a bad idea. Or maybe that was Sherlock's wishful thinking. As always, what mattered were the facts and, as they stood, Mycroft remained. 

_They say there's a first time for everything._

For a long while Sherlock remained still and wordless, sitting in their stubborn silence and waiting for Mycroft's mobile to call him away. He listened to the swish of fabric as the man removed coat and jacket, taking the chair Lestrade had dragged in from the kitchen and propping his feet up on the coffee table in a sorry mimic of the DI's comfortable familiarity. Sherlock refrained from his cringe nonetheless. Anything not to give Mycroft a reaction. For a time Sherlock was thanking his body for hlding out while his brother was in the room, but as the minutes ticked, the migraine returned. He let his violin drop to the floor and he was soon curling into the back of the sofa.

Mycroft shifted in his chair watching down his nose as Sherlock twisted fingers through limp curls. Part of him still wanted to think that Sherlock deserved it, but he assumed that was mostly because he knew he couldn't make it stop.

Through the sounds of his malfunctioning brain, Sherlock heard his brother stand up and he both cursed and hoped the man was running off again. Sharp clangs from the kitchen told him otherwise and what the detective felt must have been hours later the kettle screamed. A mug was set on the table and Sherlock flinched away from the hand on his shoulder. He could just about see the pursing of lips, the eye roll, the stare. The scent of warm chamomile met his nostrils and it took a moment for him to realise he never bought chamomile and another for him to remember why. Deeply embedded olfactory memories crawled through the maze inside his head to his consciousness and he squeezed his eyes tighter against childhood sick days and a broken ankle and migraines. Even more prominent were memories lacking it and Sherlock's teeth ground as he tried to stamp it out. The hand was back in his shoulder and Sherlock didn't quite have the energy to swat it back. It rolled him over and he cracked his eyes, surprised to find the room not flooded with the garish light of the afternoon. He blinked into the dim atmosphere, pulling his feet in towards him and accidentally giving Mycroft a place to sit. 

Mycroft sat in the dark near his feet until Sherlock decided there wasn't enough space between them and sat up, pulling his knees to his chest. Before he knew it the mug had found it's way into his trembling hand and the steam was warming his face and clearing his head just enough to let him think.

"Sherlock, I should have seen the s-"

"Fine."

Mycroft didn't falter, simply letting a breath out through his nose before deciding that was as close as he was going to get and moving on. "There are legal restrictions on the money you'll have to wait until-"

" _Fine_ ," he hissed, wondering why  _shut up_  hadn't come out of his mouth.

It seemed to work regardless, Mycroft ceased his attempted... apology? It didn't matter. The flat was quiet and the gears in Sherlock's mind finally started to mesh again.

Eventually his phone pinged and Sherlock leaned forward to let the cold tea sit on the table , wincing as the backlight pierced his vision. He kept his face carefully blank lest his brother get too curious but as he read the message it became increasingly difficult.

_I can get you some._

The detective let it drop, feigning disinterest as his unwilling brain fought to get Mycroft out of his flat.


	8. Chapter 8

Twenty painstaking minutes of waiting and a few well-placed comments had Mycroft standing and feeling in the dark for his jacket and coat. The younger Holmes refrained from helping him, the need to appear natural overpowering the desire to get him out of the flat.

Hearing at last the punch of fabric as his brother donned his outer layers, Sherlock calculated his farewell. "Let's hope the world's economy hasn't collapsed in your absence."

Sherlock expected a huffed sigh or a guilty pause, but Mycroft simply moved towards the door, unfazed "Nothing I can't clear up."

"That's what you always think," the detective snorted, shutting his eyes against the memories that he wished he were able to stifle.

"No, Sherlock." Mycroft's darkened outline could vaguely be seen as it reached the door and finally Sherlock saw the brief hesitation he'd been looking for. "Not always."

The younger brother wished suddenly the flat wasn't so dark as to shade Mycroft's face.

Lifting his head, Sherlock listened and watched the shadowy outline of his brother collect itself until the thin line of light surrounding the door widened until it engulfed his brother’s silhouette. A second later the door clicked closed and steady footfalls receded down the hall. Sherlock remained still until the last click of the umbrella had faded and the distinct sound of Mycroft's government issue car was heard carrying him away.

Alone at last, Sherlock bolted to his feet, ignoring the dizziness that came with the rushed movements. He picked up his phone, toying with the possibility that his brother had simply set the mysterious text up in order to test Sherlock's devotion to getting clean. Having it sent while he was in the flat did seem rather obvious though, and Mycroft wasn't typically one for subtlety. Staring down at the short sentence illuminated on his screen, Sherlock decided he didn't care either way. Risking his brother's anger or disappointment was well worth the opportunity to get something a bit more poisonous back into his bloodstream. Pulling off his three day t-shirt, one hand moved to dig for a clean button-down and the other returned quickly to his mobile to send his response.

_Explain._

The sleuth found himself staring at his phone, waiting the four horrendously long minutes to see if he could start to get his hopes up. Finally the screen lit with its new message and Sherlock hungrily took in the instructions.

The plan was simple enough -- get to the Yard, find the specified files and get out. Documents in hand (and knife in pocket), Sherlock would go to the specified address and the exchange would be made. The last steps included locking his doors and enduring the thrilling high he so desperately needed. 

Showered, shaven, and freshly clothed, the detective emerged from his flat nearly looking himself. His gait was torn between exhaustion and excitement, but Sherlock hid it as well as he could, pulling his coat more tightly around himself as the cold London winds ruffled still-wet curls. He hailed a cab easily enough and, as the city raced by, tried to come up with some strategy. Mycroft said the DI was in Liverpool and that was hugely convenient and likely the reason his new acquaintance had chosen that particular afternoon to engage in contact.

Stolen copy of Lestrade's identification in hand, it was easy enough to walk through back entrance. A quick swipe through the security scanner and Sherlock was dodging cameras and picking his way through the halls toward the archives. He stood against the wall, double checking the text before pulling up his collar and stepping out to swipe Lestrade's card once again. Gloved hands twisted the knob and he ducked into the room, half a thought going to the fact that he would certainly need a new coat if he planned to avoid legal recognition and escape charges. He'd been thinking of something longer anyway.

A moment was spared for his throbbing skull, the sharp ache that pulsed between his temples dulled only by the knowledge that soon it would be made better. Sherlock knew he only had so much time before someone would come by -- honestly he was lucky he hadn't already run into anyone in the halls. For ten minutes Sherlock searched by the light of his phone, shaking hands sifting through abandoned files until finally landing on the correct name. With the manila folder shoved into his coat, the detective cut back towards the exit.

 

 

_Obtained. Eight minutes._

Dropping his phone beside him, Sherlock glanced up to the cabby --  _Single mother with- No, divorcee who has since lost the custody war and her job, likely in that order --_  before deciding it was safe enough and pulling the folded documents from the inner pocket of his coat. " _Found innocent on all homicidal charges..." "Suspicion surfaced after Richards first instance of resisted arrest..." "have been several implications of treason regarding the..." Dull. Guilty, certainly, but not worth my concern._  The detective tucked the file back into his pocket as his phone sounded.

_The door's unlocked. I'll be waiting._

Sherlock hesitated before tucking his phone back in his pocket, the urge to ask how much he was getting and where it was coming from nearly getting the best of him. The information would come in time and Sherlock was still doing his best to uphold his pride.

Sherlock stepped out of the cab, asking it to wait as he walked the last half-block towards the designated alley and found the back door as instructed. He double checked the small blade in his pocket as he pushed inside. The fluorescent light jabbed at his brain far more sharply even than the orange shine of the setting sun outside and he took a moment to settle the pain in his skull before refocusing on his goal. His correspondent hadn't been clever enough to state whether he was supposed to go up or down and Sherlock rolled his eyes and  used his own judgement as he started down towards the cellar. The door at the bottom was slightly ajar and Sherlock stepped confidently into the dimly lit room, nearly scoffing at the stereotype of their meeting place.

His eyes were having a difficult time adjusting to the light but the young man opposite made himself apparent.  _Dark trousers (track suit bottoms?), a too-big sweatshirt. Definitely not his typical garb and almost certainly chosen to conceal himself ._

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"Obviously. And you might as well drop the accent. A good attempt I'll admit, but you're hardly an East Ender."

The man bristled and Sherlock could feel the smug grin trying to pull itself onto his face.  _Won't be needing my knife after all, apparently._  He couldn’t risk turning the man away however and Sherlock reached into his coat, pulling out the document, waving then about as he spoke. "I assume you've got mine?"

The man gave a nod, likely too embarrassed to speak again. He dug into his pockets and pulled out a crinkled paper bag.

"Where from?" Sherlock prompted, taking a step forward, documents lowering in offer.

"The bloke on Stepney. 300 mg."

_Perfect._  Nodding his approval, the detective closed the space further, putting the stolen file just within the man's reach and taking hold of the bag. They each went over their rewards and gave agreeable nods, Sherlock finding the supplied paraphernalia consistent with the dealer and the other man apparently finding the documents he was looking for.

"Well it has been a pleasure..." Sherlock trailed off, already making for the door. It was all he could do not to duck deeper into the alley and just take care of things there, but the cab was waiting and Lestrade's accusations echoed in the back of his head. Addict or not, he was determined to be better than that.

After an anxious cab ride, Sherlock slid back into his flat, bolting the door and dumping the contents of the bag across the coffee table. He fumbled in his excitement as he prepared the syringe before darting into the kitchen.  Within half a minute Sherlock had the cocaine in a dish, sprayed with just enough water to help it dissolve, needle ready and waiting beside it. The detective watched for just a moment before shedding his coat and jumping up to fetch a cotton ball from the loo.

His hands shook as he soaked the cotton ball, even as they drew the precious liquid into the syringe. Sleeves rolled up and arm tied off, Sherlock waited for his hand to still before piercing his longing veins and basking in the tingling rush as he released the tourniquet.

Sherlock flexed his fingers, solution mixing beautifully with blood. He closed his eyes and waited for the euphoria to slap away what he'd been forced to live with all week. 

It was taking far too long. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he scrambled over to where his phone sat on the coffee table, finding his limbs unwilling to cooperate. His first thought was  _overdose_  but he knew that was wrong. He knew what that felt like and this was very, very wrong. Next came  _bad batch_  but still he knew better. His hand slapped at his phone but his fingers wouldn't close around it. His face contorted in pain and frustration as his body gave out, dropping against the table before sliding off to hit the floor. 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up and wishes he hadn't.

The darkness was absolute. A choking silence blocked out his groans and invisible bonds tightened around each muscle, tugging at all the wrong angles in taut convulsions. Sherlock was almost grateful when the pain started to break his consciousness.

When the pain returned, mostly reduced to exhausted aches and twinges, the blackness had cleared. Bright light filtered red through his eyelids and his face was wet where it was pressed into the floor. He could hope it was only drool, but his nose rather viciously suggested otherwise. For a long time Sherlock lay measuring his breathing with the dread of attempting movement hanging persistently in his thoughts. If his eyes hadn't finally peeled open he may have never even tried, but as he adjusted to the light --  _coming through the window behind me, the angle of the shadows put me between eight and ten in the morning_  -- alarms went off in his head.

From where he lay Sherlock could see beneath the coffee table and beyond, observing the stretch of floor reaching the cracked open door. Considering what his intentions had been in his last hour of consciousness, he highly doubted that he'd been so careless as to leave it open and he scrambled to his feet. Or tried to.

He tried to push himself up with his hands, but tired muscles shrieked their protest and his shoulders refused to take his weight. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Sherlock managed to push onto his forearms before he was forced into taking a break. Lank curls dropped into his hands and he was once again left to try and control his breathing and hope desperately that whoever had come into his flat wasn't still watching him. Though it wasn't much of a mystery, he realised. A stupid man with a false East End accent and a poorly executed disguise was almost certainly behind this.

Sherlock tried to push against the floor again so he might be able to sit, but his body didn't seem ready.

He should have checked the batch. There were tests he could have run and precautions he should have taken. When the man had gained something already it seemed unlikely that he would have had to worry about any of that. What could he possibly gain from drugging the detective?

Again Sherlock tried to prop himself up, straightening one arm and getting the other onto the coffee table in a half-sit.

 _Unless he hadn't needed the file anyway_ , Sherlock continued his thought.  _Unless he'd predicted my line of thinking and used the file retrieval as a cover._ Still the consulting detective couldn't find reason for wanting to hurt him until he'd recovered from his last move and could take in the sight of his parlour.

The items on the coffee table had been sifted through, the piles of books toppled over near the wall, the coat he'd tossed on the floor in his excitement kicked and trampled. . Whoever had crashed it either didn't know how to pick the lock or chose not to for the frame was now cracked and the handle bent from the force as it was kicked open. A glance toward the kitchen showed that the intruder had been thorough in his chaos. His skull pulsed with intermittent pain and he wasn't even sure of the cause anymore. At least he'd woken up before Lestrade came by.

Arms beginning to shake from supporting him, Sherlock shifted again, pushing back to lean against the sofa and arranging his legs so he might have a chance to stand later. His phone on the floor beside him quickly caught his attention and after a minute he reached over and dragged it onto his lap. His fingers were clumsy on the keys, but it worked well enough to raise the nest set of red flags in the detective's brain.

Three missed calls, two from Lestrade and one from Unknown. An '020' area code meant somewhere in London, but if the number meant anything to him, his aching brain had yet to make the connection. He didn't even attempt to bring the phone to his ear for the voicemails, turning it to speakerphone and letting his grip loosen as he gave his muscles another recess.

Lestrade's voice came through, his usual mixture of frustrated exasperation and attempted calm coming through even in the shoddy recording. "I don't know what you're playing at, Sherlock, but I know it was you. If nothing else you could change your stupid coat."  _I intend to,_ Sherlock thought, picking his head up to glance at it laying across the floor. It would be easy enough to claim it was stolen. "I give you enough bloody information to get myself fired already, I can't be responsible for unlicensed personal traipsing along through the Yard! If you took anything from there we need it back before someone catches on. I'm going to phone you again on my way out and if you don't answer I'm coming to see you in person."

At first Sherlock's brow furrowed as he considered the possibility of Lestrade ransacking his home, but quickly puts it to bed with the knowledge that the DI had far too much of a conscience to leave him there in his state.

Sherlock recognised the second number in renewed horror just as the next voicemail began to play, a woman's voice professional and rushed. "Mr. Holmes I apologise for ringing at this hour, this is Dr. Ginder of the UCLH Emergency Centre. A man was brought in tonight from in front of The Grange Blooms Hotel on Montague supporting two embedded gunshot wounds and no means of identification. Removal of the bullets went off without complications, however we are still unable to identify him. His mobile showed two attempts to phone you in the hour prior to the shooting and we would appreci-"

Sherlock ended the call, mind reeling as the details flooded and his chest tightened. Again he was trying to push to his feet, pushing backwards against the couch as he got his legs beneath him and throwing his weight forwards to pull up on the table. His legs moaned complaints and threatened collapse as they took his weight and stumbled forward in a wobbly stand. Sherlock braced himself as he hit the front wall near the door. Catching his breath for just an instant, the detective let his shoulder lean against the wall as he made for the door and guided his exhausted, miserable body down the hall for a cab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify - UCLH is 'University London College Hospital,' which seems to have the closest Emergency Care Unit to Montague St.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to find Lestrade and it's harder than it should be.

Between his flat and the cab that finally rescued him the detective had been forced to catch his weight one on the brick wall of the outside of his complex and twice on street lamps that Sherlock had been lucky to stumble into as his legs rebelled against his mind. His brain felt heavy in his throbbing skull and he had a hard time coming up with something he wouldn't give for ten minutes without a headache. Still his lungstwisted and needles pricked his churning stomach. If there had been anything left in it by the time he finallly woke up it would have been emptied onto the pavement the second he tried to stand without the aid of the wall. 

Finally he was able to collapse into the seat of a cab, grunting out 'University Hospital' and choosing not to worry about the fact that he didn't have a single pound with him to pay the fare. It didn't occur to him until later that the cabby had probably not expected much of the detective in the state he was in. Unshowered, unable to stand and barely conscious, he seemed more likely to be admitted to hospital than visit. Sherlock shut his eyes against the lurch of the car as it started into motion, choosing not to open them as they passed the place on the street where Detective Inspector Lestrade had been shot the night before.

She'd said the removal surgery had gone off fine, hadn't she? _Obviously he's fine_ , he tried in vain to reason with himself. People got shot everyday after all. Not in London though. In London it seemed impossible for a hospital to have the proper understanding and experience to successfully remove two bullets from Lestrade's legs, arms, back, chest, wherever he'd been struck. There were any number of things that could still be wrong with the man and Sherlock couldn't make his dazed mind drift toward anything else. The alien sensation of concern was making itself far too apparent, but as they pulled up to the hospital he realised he was going to have a hard time getting in without them thinking he'd come in for medical attention.

After a while the cabby offered assistance into the building and Sherlock stubbornly refused, pushing open the door and trying to focus on the pavement below. With some difficulty he turned his legs to hang out the door and eased himself down to a stand. From there it was a matter of strategic stumbling and Sherlock cringed as his back finally hit the wall of the hospital. Had there been any chance of salvaging his appearance he would have straightened his collar and re-tucked his shirt but he knew it was no use and took the time instead to gather his mental faculties.

Eventually he pushed onto uncertain feet, taking unguided steps and resisting the urge to double over heaving. Naturally, the instant he stepped through the door there were hands on him looking to give help he didn't want.

"Sit down sir, we can have a room ready for you, can you hear me?"  _Burn mark across the side of her face from a curling iron, probably something to do with her toddler. An addition to the ring on her left hand suggests recently renewed vows which, combined with the too-small bra, is likely a sign of child number two on its way._ _  
_

 _There's a gunshot victim here, where is he?_ "Sh.. Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock managed, pushing the nurse's hands off him and immediately finding it had been a poor decision. While his mind seemed to be improving, his body was lagging behind. His knees buckled and the same arms which he's been so eager to push away caught him before he hit the floor.

"Okay, Mr. Holmes, there's a wheelchair coming for you, just lean on me." Apparently the nurse didn't catch the detectives sneer because she went on holding him as she asked the next question. "Can you tell me anything about what your experiencing?"

 _Acute muscle spasms and involuntary contractions that have caused insufferable exhaustion introduces via intravenous injection nearly twelve hours ago likely containing a botanical poison which would render it water soluble. Hyacinth, ergot derivatives, or anything containing cytisine. I'll be fine, where's the gunshot victim?_ Sherlock hissed his agitation. His brain supplied the answers, but his mouth refused to properly articulate at any tolerable speed. It seemed he wasn't going to be able to escape treatment, he might as well make it quick. 

He made an attempt to push up his sleeve, getting it most of the way before the nurse's dark hands were on his pale ones, tugging them up to reveal pallid arms pocked across the underside of his elbow and forearm with dark reddish brown. It took barely a second for her eyes to register what they were seeing, widening before she let out the sigh of another city junkie.

At least this was something they'd dealt with before. Despite the fact that 'attempted homicide' would probably be a better description than 'laced cocaine' Sherlock assumed it would get the job done.

"What substance?" 

"Cocaine, last night. Not overd.. dose."

"Okay then, hush now, don't fret," she muttered in what was clearly meant to be a comforting tone but which did little more than further irritate the detective who had half a mind to take his wrist from her hand.

Already detox and rehabilitation speeches were being fired at him, but he was far too exhausted and far too busy searching the others for signs of his Detective Inspector. _What the hell was that doctor's name?_

The wheelchair appeared but Sherlock was definitely not willing to surrender himself to it, determined to get the nurses to understand why he was actually here. His body would heal; Lestrade's might not.

"Shot twice, no ID," he grunted several times as he was 'helped' through the doors and down the hall before someone finally caught them.

"What? What did you say his name was?"

Sherlock turned to the voice, pushing off the woman again to get a hand on each of the thin man's shoulders. "Sherlock Holmes."

Finally --  _finally --_  somebody understood. "He's the one they called to ID the double gunshot victim brought in last night, yes?"  _Obviously, yes!_

Unloading a good portion of his weight onto the intern's shoulders, Sherlock forced their eyes to meet. His usual demanding gravitas and cavalier grace were summoned to the forefront as he spoke. "I'm fine. Where is he?"

There was a moment's hesitation. The intern clearly realised that he technically had say over the group of nurses but also knew they probably knew the best course of action. "He's resisting anyway," he finally said to the nurse. "None of these punctures look fresh enough for us to have to worry about things worsening much for now. Let's let him identify our patient first and we'll do what we have to afterwards."

There was little argument and Sherlock reluctantly leaned on the wiry intern as he made his way to the DI's recovery unit. Greying hair lolled onto white pillows and tightly wrapped bandages bound his ribcage. The detective freed himself from the doctor's grasp, moving clumsily to grip the side of the bed.  _Even breathing, regular heart-rate. Signs of bandaging beneath the blanket shows that the second bullet entered his left thigh._ The consulting detective shifted his gaze to the jacket thrown over the nearby chair, the one he'd worn to Liverpool that day without doubt.  _Straight from Liverpool to the Yard to Montague_ , he realised.

"Do you know him?" The voice interrupted his brain but Sherlock didn't mind terribly this time.

"Yes."

There was a pause, the young doctor likely waiting for the name. He never asked though, instead putting on a tone of gentle honestly that both irritated Sherlock and proved that he was an inexperienced doctor still vulnerable to death. "He'll be alright."

Sherlock let his gaze turn to the unconscious man's face yet again, taking in the deep breath that he hadn't quite managed since he woke up. Maybe there was something to say to that but he wasn't sure what it was. The intern had no reason to care anyway. "Lestrade," he gave instead, working himself up a moment so he could try to work the next sentence from his lips. "He's a Detecter- Dec- Detective Inspector... rhe Yard."


	11. Chapter 11

The sight still felt heavy in Sherlock's mind as he forced words to the intern, answering anything that he'd been told or deduced about the man in the eighteen months they'd been working together. He could have simply given his wife's name, but he realised he had no idea what it was. Even if he had known he doubted he would have said anything; part of him was drawn to the bedside, focused on the waves of the Inspector's breath with a precision that mismatched Sherlock's drooping, awkward persona. 

The sleuth expected it when they pulled him away. Standing was still exceedingly difficult and Sherlock had been pushing the boundaries on it for far too long already. The cold metal bar that ran along the bedside wasn't quite enough support for his weakened body and as much as he despised being taken away to do whatever it was they had planned, he was glad to have someone to hold him upright.

He was led to a semi-private and sat in a bed nearby. Naturally Sherlock refused but they seemed tobe prepared for it. Sitting up was more difficult than it should have been but the nurses and doctor held onto him as they rolled his sleeves and slipped yet another needle into his arm. They didn't bother tying him off, apparently his veins were obvious enough without.

 

 

 

It was dark outside. Odd, it hadn't been a moment ago.   _Ah, of course._   _Benzodiazepines to slow the central nervous system and probably ease irritability. I said it wasn't an overdose, didn't I? It had been hours since injection when I came in, if I had overdosed again I would have been dead long before I had a chance to get here._ He rolled his eyes at their over-cautious behaviour, stretching his toes and fingers before bending elbows and knees and finding himself more or less tied down with IV's and monitors that hooked into his arm and his chest. Pulling on the tubes and cords would only make the machines beep and scream their protest and the detective knew the tedium and scolding that would follow. As anxious as he was to leave his divided room, getting out was actually going to be quickest with cooperation. He practically sneered at the thought.

Reaching across with his left hand, he hit the nurse's button. The dark-skinned nurse from earlier came in, asking tedious questions about how he felt which Sherlock answered with as much grace as he could manage.  _What do you bloody well expect me to feel?_

Fortunately the nurse seemed to take to his sarcasm and Sherlock was easily turning her into a rather useful acquaintance.

"God knows what was in you, but it wasn't no overdose."

 _Wasn't_ _an overdose,_ he corrected in his head. "I could have told you that. I did, I think."

She laughed and Sherlock threw out a fake smile as she answered. "Honey, you weren't in much shape to trust on that."

The detective gave a half snort of laughter, meant to demonstrate appropriate guilt and amusement as he averted his eyes. "I guess not, no." The hand that touched his shoulder told him that he'd managed to steal the nurse's sympathy. 

"It's alright, I've seen blokes far worse than you get their heads back on." 

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what the appropriate reaction should have been (the snort of derision that he held in his throat probably wasn't it) but he settled on a short hum and a sigh as he brought his gaze to his lap. That tended to be a good default.

"You think I'm lying?" 

 _Much the opposite,_  Sherlock stopped himself from saying. 

The woman went on. "I see this all the time, you know, arms like yours. Most junkies don't make mates with police officers, and they definitely don't go fretting over them, " she said, patting her hand against his shoulder for added emphasis. 

For a moment Sherlock forgot his character, bristling under her accusation of sentiment, but again she laughed and began pulling the pins from his arm. He extended fingers and elbows, rolling his shoulders and trying to find his bearings.

Considering he'd been drugged, unconscious or acting every time they'd met he didn't think she had much place for her opinion. Still he found himself thinking on it; going back over the last hours of his consciousness to find when exactly he'd been 'fretting' over Lestrade.

When she spoke again she'd lost some of the wise maternal tone and Sherlock was glad that she didn't seem to be trying any more lessons about his own being. "He's been up a few hours. Asking after you, too. I'm not allowed to say nothing, so explain however you like. You've both got a story behind last night, I'm sure." 

With a last smile, she turned and made her exit, leaving Sherlock with what practically amounted to an invitation to go back and find Lestrade. He rubbed the place on the back of his hand where the IV had gone in and focused his mind. Trying to recall where exactly the DI's room was should have been rather simple but his drugged mmind hadn't held the memories very well. After a moment the sleuth pushed the blankets from his torso and started off to where he was fairly certain Lestrade would be resting.

Walking was easier than it had been that morning and his head returned to simply maintaining the sharp throb of cravings rather than also trying to accommodate the dull hack of rising nausea. He reached Lestrade's room with minimal difficulty, managing the walk with only the precautionary aid of a hand on the wall. From outside he could hear the telly flipping channels and just about feel the man's boredom through the door. That, at least, was something Sherlock could understand.

"Do they decorate Detective Inspector's for getting shot or is that only in the army?" Sherlock asked as he appeared in the doorway, not much caring for the answer but managing a considerable amount of his usual cavalier attitude which was made difficult by unwelcome emotions and drugs of one sort or another that hadn't quite left this system.

Lestrade's eyes moved from the television to Sherlock, sticking on the detective's gaze with a sharpness he couldn't identify. Slow breathing meant relief, but the eyes were unforgiving. The Inspector's mouth twitched with something he wasn't saying and the moment sat just a bit too long before Lestrade finally answered, eyes moving back to the screen. "You're shit at small talk, Sherlock. Just leave it off."

Sherlock was actually relieved by the answer. He stepped further into the room, letting the door shut behind him as his eyes drifted around the perimeter. Now that he'd arrived he wasn't quite sure why he was here or what reason he had to stay. Lestrade was fine, he could see that. He knew what happened, more or less, and staying here wasn't going to help him work out who it was who'd drugged him, broke into his flat and shot his DI.

"If I have a look around my flat I should find something to go on. I'll have him in your hands by morning, or-"

"I know who it was, Sherlock, there's already a search and arrest warrant in place."

The detective's brow wrinkled as he tried to work out what connection Lestrade could possibly have to this criminal.

"He used to be an officer, worked traffic in South End. We've already been looking for him for months, there are resting charges against him for political corruption and refusal of trial. I'm assuming he targeted you because he thought it would be easier than bribing an officer." The DI stopped, his lips pressing into a line as he looked to Sherlock, eyes deep with disappointment. "Apparently he knew what he was doing."

"So he was looking for a way to get in and he had to make sure it was possible. Brilliant. Now that he's resurfaced it should be easier to locate him," Sherlock added, shamelessly ignoring the last comment as his brain worked through the rest. 

Lestrade huffed a laugh, eyes rolling as he moved to shut off the telly. The detective's pulsing skull thanked him for the quiet, but he wasn't fond of the thick air that settled in it.

"Sherlock, you realise I can't let you help me."

As much as he'd expected them, the words still sank heavily in his stomach. Lestrade's cases had been his only outlet, his only hope for ever finding a career, the only thing that kept Mycroft at bay. " _I_ didn't shoot you," he countered, sounding remarkably like a bitter child.

"No, Sherlock, but you snuck into a British government facility to steal God knows what from official criminal archives in exchange for cocaine." Lestrade stared back at Sherlock's confusion, scoffing in his exasperation. "I'm not the world's only Consulting Detective, but detection is sort of my job."

"I can help," Sherlock insisted.

"Not like that." Dark eyes searched Sherlock's icy ones. "I want your help, Sherlock. We need it."  _Brows half raised -- admission. As if I didn't already know that they need me._  "But I can't just let you in and hope you're going to stay on our side and trust that I'm not sneaking a strung out consultant onto my crime-scenes. This may be your hobby but it's my job."

Sherlock ducked his gaze, trying to find reason in his own argument. A long pause settled in the empty space, the detective's mind battling with itself beneath aching skull. Finally he gave an answer. "Okay."

"Okay?" Lestrade challenged.

" _Okay._ "

Sherlock hated the vagueness of his agreement. Whatever 'okay' meant he was conceding this time around wouldn't even likely have a proper payback for ages.

The consultant could feel Lestrade's eyes on him and he refrained from shifting his feet where he stood. As domineering as Sherlock was on a crime-scene, something about the DI had a remarkable hold over him when he needed to. Even as he lay in bed, broken by bullets and weighed by emotion, Lestrade maintained firm control. For a moment Sherlock wondered whether the man actually  _allowed_  him to walk around the way he did rather than simply tolerating it. The thought abandoned him, however, as he caught the twitch of Lestrade's fingers.

"You need a cigarette."

Lestrade found Sherlock's eyes with that same sincerity Sherlock didn't quite loathe anymore. "No," he ammended. "I need a patch."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries and Lestrade forgives.

Lestrade was stuck in hospital for four days. Sherlock retreated back into his flat, passing the hours in darkness filled with the crass sounds of his violin when his aching brain could stand it and dead silence when it couldn't.  Still sleep evaded him most nights and that made things far worse than they had to be. The fogginess of sleep deprivation and the weight of shaky cravings left him without the energy to even look for any cure for the suffocating boredom.

It was better than it had been. More time had passed since his last real high and this time he'd actually agreed to try. Still Sherlock doubted his brother trusted him enough to drop his hold over any of the London-area dealers, but that was to be expected. Mycroft had never been one to put his trust in others. He couldn't even trust the bloody government to run itself, how could he trust an addict?

The Yard didn't trust him. He hadn't even been allowed to put his side of things out there. They told him he was lucky not to be tried in court, but Sherlock knew that wasn't true. Lestrade had seen the man who put the bullets in him and no one else knew a thing about him sneaking into the Yard's archives. The tapes for that night had rather mysteriously disappeared.

Mycroft stopped by twice in those four days, delivering a much needed meal, urging him to shower, and brewing cups of chamomile that reminded Sherlock all too well of things he was too stubborn and too preoccupied to bother fixing.

Pulling his bow across the strings on the sixth morning, Sherlock found it infuriatingly difficult to focus his thoughts. His shaking hands continued to miss fingering on the neck and push the bow just a little too hard over sensiteive strings. Eyes closed, he forced his mindpalace into clarity, faltering each time the note screamed a bit too harshly until the sharp knock on the door jolted him back to the darkness of his reality.

The detective had been far too engrossed and his brain far too foggy to be able to properly play back the footsteps that had made their way to his door -- in his memory they were firm and uneven and didn't match properly with any that he'd catalogued before. He was nearly certain, however, that he heard the click of Mycroft's umbrella. Few others would bother coming by anyway. The knock came again in resounding impatience and Sherlock grunted acknowledgement as he let the instrument down onto the table. Aided only by the light that seeped around his heavy curtains, Sherlock made his way to the door and pulled it open.

The lazy insult on his tongue dissipated at the sight of the Detective Inspector. Instead Sherlock's eyes widened and his mouth was left slightly open in a rare display of confusion and surprise.

Lestrade leaned into the hospital cane at his side, dark eyes looking up to find the detective's. The heaviness that surrounded his presence in hospital still hadn't fully evaporated and Sherlock feared for a moment that he was about to sit through his last lecture from Detective Inspector Lestrade. The thought wasn't as relieving as he might have thought a few weeks earlier.

The DI held up his usual takeaway bag as he made to step into the room. "Mind budging over so I can go have a sit?"

Sherlock's brows came up at the question. He'd expected something far more volitile but was glad to accept the curt question in it's place.

 _Leg braced and bandaged, still recovering from muscle damage. Still bending his knee so there is likely not major joint damage. He only raised the bag half-way, possibly in order to make me take it from him, more likely because his abdomen is protesting the use of muscles._ Sherlock reached over and hit the switch for the lights, cringing as the soft yellow glow burned behind his eyes and between his temples. Stepping away from the door, he ran his eyes over the DI as he made his way to the couch. _M_ _inimal creases in clothes, shaven, rested. Been in his own home for at least a day._

"Not permanent, I assume," he said after a moment, kicking the door shut and dropping gracelessly into Lestrade's usual chair.

The inspector shook his head.   _No name tag, no jacket beneath his coat. Not yet been to the Yard._

"But not allowed field work until you can walk without a cane," Sherlock realised, not bothering to hide his disappointment. No work for Lestrade meant no cases for Sherlock.

"I've still got plenty to do."

Suddenly Sherlock recognised the smell of vinegar and pastrami that was used at the sub shop down the street. It reminded him immediately of days when Sherlock hadn't even bothered to turn the lights on or sit up any longer than it took to take ibuprofen. This time Lestrade handed the sandwich over and Sherlock accepted it, pulling back the wax paper and making an inventory of the ingredients before taking a bite. He wondered for a moment if he should have been the one to go visit Lestrade this time around. Something told him his presence wouldn't serve any great purposel, however and he let the thought slip away.

They were quiet for a time as they ate and Sherlock was halfway through realising he had no idea what time it was when he caught sight of the DI's twitching fingers yet again. "How long's it been?"

It took Lestrade half a second to connect the vague questions with his rising need for nicotine before he answered. "Two weeks yesterday. You?"

"Eighteen days," he gave bitterly. "Or six, but there wasn't technically cocaine in that hit."

"Eighteen it is."

Another length of silence set and they both finished their subs and tossed balled up wrappers onto the messy coffee table. Normally Lestrade might have started idle conversations for Sherlock to forget later on, but the sleuth wasn't surprised by the quiet. His own thoughts danced around the apology he knew he ought to be giving, but if the DI was willing to give wordless forgiveness, Sherlock didn't see the point in gritting through the unpleasant words.

"I head back to the office tomorrow," Lestrade said as he pushed to a stand. "Fair warning, It might be a day or two before anything comes up."

Sherlock looked back, puzzled. "You're letting me help, then?"

"Eighteen days," Lestrade reminded. "As long as that number keeps going up, you've got me. I told you we need your brain, Sherlock, I wasn't kidding."

Sherlock's sharp featured froze before he slowly found it in himself to force the words out. "The other officers saw me in hospital..." He waited trying to decide if that was enough to make his point before going on. "They know that I'm-"

"You're not. Not anymore."

Sherlock watched the DI's honest expression. Beneath whatever resentment held by the Inspector was , waiting for it to falter for a long moment before nodding. "I still smoke," he pointed out.

"Yeah, quit rubbing it in." Lestrade gave a crooked grin as he limped back towards the doorway. "I'll text you if I've got anything."

Sherlock nodded, turning in his chair to watch the door close behind him. The faith that man had in him was far more than the detective deserved, and he knew that. So did everyone else in the world, it seemed. But at least Lestrade understood. To have one person who could see the way his brain fell apart and who gave a damn when it did was extraordinary, but the fact that that person could actually give Sherlock what he needed was something the sleuth hadn't even begun to appreciate. 

Sherlock didn't believe in a God. He didn't believe in karma or fate or much of anything beyond strictly proven reality, but if he did he would thank it every day for the rest of his flourishing, twisting career for convincing Lestrade to trust him when no body else would.


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade proves he's still in charge and John passes a test.

Sherlock pushed through the door of 221B, the doctor at his heels. Officers in rubber gloves and quick judgement shuffled through his things, turning up chemicals and mucking up yet another set of experiments. It was a more familiar scene than he would have liked to admit. Their lack of grace was a prime example of why they were so inefficient on a crime scene; the way they handled things it was lucky they ever caught anyone without his help.

It wasn't until he heard John come up behind him that he started to feel nervous. 

Sherlock pushed in to stand before Lestrade whose casual sprawl over his chair made the situation all the more irritating. "What are you doing?" 

"Well, I knew you’d find the case. I’m not stupid." 

 _Debatable, at this particular moment._ "You can't just break into my flat."  _John's here. I'm clean._ _  
_

"And you can’t withhold evidence." Lestrade eyed him, a discrete reminder of a two year old deal that Sherlock would never miss. "And I didn’t _break_  into your flat."

Sherlock cursed him for his contradiction, biting only because he didn't have much of another option and maybe the DI had found some other excuse. "Well, what do you call this then?"

Surveying the situation with smug satisfaction, Lestrade looked back towards him with raised brows. "It's a drugs bust."

_I had been hoping to keep this flatma-_

"Seriously?" John's voice interrupted Sherlock's thoughts. There was no judgement. No recoil. No 'that explains it.' Just surprise. Perhaps there was a chance to keep him around. " _This_  guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!"

 _Not good._ "John..." The word wasn't quite as urgent as he would have liked it to be. _  
_

"I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational."

"John, you probably want to shut up now."  _Before somebody else tries to explain something they don't understand._

"Yeah, but come on..."

Sherlock stepped in closer, trying to speak without speaking and finding it far more difficult than he would have imagined. The ability to read him when it was needed was, perhaps, the only one of Mycroft's qualities he would have wished upon all of his acquaintances. 

"You?"  _Furrowed brow. Confusion. Uncertainty. Disdain? Maybe not..._

"Shut up!" Sherlock turned back to Lestrade and tried to cut the conversation off before it began. John would ask later, but for now he needed to put it off.

He succeeded for only a moment. Anderson was a useful distraction. Albeit infuriating and smug and generally unpleasant, he was at least useful for once. It wasn't long before Sherlock slipped up, forgetting his position and forgetting again that there was one person in this room who didn't quite know what had happened.

"So you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"  _Stupid._

Sherlock saw the words coming before they were out of Lestrade's mouth. "It stops being pretend if they find anything."

"I'm clean." Sherlock practically cut him off with the harsh declaration. For just a moment they were back in the hospital room and Lestrade had been shot and Sherlock knew it was his fault. The space between them was heavy with the past.

The DI was asking something but Sherlock didn't bother listening, too busy undoing the buttons on his cuff to show off the inside of his arm. Pale skin once flecked with dark circles and pocks was now decorated only by faint scars and a patch that would remain a symbol of continued healing. "I don't even smoke."

They made eye contact for the briefest of moments and they hardly needed that. Lestrade was already undoing his buttons and tugging up his sleeve, reflecting Sherlock's patched arm in his own. "Neither do I." 

It was impossible to say if the others in the room could feel the cold resolution between them. Sherlock dropped his shoulders slightly, putting the decision on the other man. It was up to him, after all. It always was. They did up their sleeves and Sherlock let himself hope that they could just get on.

Lestrade took a breath, nodded. "So let's work together. We found Rachel."

_The game is on._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, enormous, unending thanks to the brilliant Simply_Isnt_On and my lovely friend Allison for editing and encouraging and being generally flawless.


End file.
